A Fresh Start

Tackling a marathon gives inmates a new outlook on life.

In some respects, Michelle Eicher is like many first-time marathoners. She joined a running club, logged 40 to 50 miles per week, and built her long run up to 22 miles. On race day, she battled nerves but finished strong in 4:29. And like any marathon, "it was an emotional roller coaster," says Eicher. "I got choked up three times."

But the similarities end there. Eicher is a convicted felon serving five years for manufacturing meth. Those 40-and 50-mile weeks? Logged on a basketball court and one-sixth-of-a-mile track at the Topeka Correctional Facility in Kansas. Her club members? Prisoners with Running Free, believed to be the country's only all-women prison running club. On May 14, Eicher and five fellow inmates completed the club's first marathon, running laps on a .8-mile loop on prison grounds. Of the eight who started the race, three are in jail for murder or manslaughter.

Running Free was born in 2007 when Carol Hill and Suzanne MacDonald, both longtime runners and volunteers at the prison, were talking about "what we would want if we were locked up," says MacDonald. To run was near the top of their list. "I think of running as a metaphor for change," says Hill. "Being able to do something you never dreamed you could do is pretty empowering."

So the pair took their idea to prison officials, who weren't as enthusiastic.

"There are very tight restrictions on what inmates can do," says Hill, "and running wasn't allowed, so it took a lot of convincing." Eventually they got approval, and Hill and MacDonald began an eight-week training program that culminated with 25 women running a 5-K in May 2007.

"When we started training," says Diane Raab, who is serving time for a drug charge, "I planned to just walk. But then I fell in love with running." She wasn't alone. "The day after the race, the women asked if we could make it a permanent club," says Hill. "And it went from there."

Running Free has since held 17 races and has nearly 80 members—more than 10 percent of the prison population. Not a single taxpayer dollar has funded the group, which has actually raised $35,000 for local charities. Most money comes from inmates, who make as little as 45 cents a day but pay fees as they would at any race. "It's not just a way for us to do better for us," says Esmie Tseng, the eventual marathon winner in 4:18. "It's a way for us to do better for the community."

Once-hesitant prison officials now agree the club has been a positive influence. "The women are learning things that those of us who run have known for years," says Bill Cummings, deputy warden and a 12-time marathoner. "How to connect to the community, handle setbacks, build up for an event—these skills have been of incredible benefit to the women." In fact, none of the club's core members have received disciplinary sanctions in the past year. "When I first got here, I was pretty resentful," Eicher says.

"But the club let me see that maybe there's some humanity left in me after all."

Running Free has also affected the prison as a whole. Late in the marathon some maximum-and minimum-security inmates were allowed to come spectate, and their cheering was overwhelming.

"For the first time, we had a positive experience that everybody, whether they participated or not, was proud of," Eicher says. "To be part of that was probably one of the greatest things in my life."